


Past Lives

by Enfilade



Series: Mend What is Broken [8]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Break Up, Gay Robots, Loneliness, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Prophecy, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift fully expected someone from his past to catch up to him someday.  He just hadn't expected that it would be Ratchet.  Or that he would have to explain why sometimes caring about someone means letting him go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When I Ruled the World

**Author's Note:**

> "Major Character Death" for references to Alternate Lost Light. Minor DJD cameo. Spoilers for MTMTE and Empire of Stone. WARNING. NUCLEAR GRADE FEELS.
> 
> Mentions of the events of “Remain in Light” and associated trauma. I have deliberately NOT mentioned any Bad Stuff happening to Ratchet other than what we see on-panel during “Remain in Light”. It’s ambiguous by design, because we’ve got kidnapping, confinement, mutilation, murder, serious incapacitation and loss of autonomy, and Pharma being a sleaze right there on the page. That’s enough Bad Stuff to justify Ratchet’s reaction in this fic.
> 
> Asking the indulgence of people because I know fic 7 isn't done yet. 
> 
> I’m not kidding about nuclear grade feels. Seriously. Get your tissue box.
> 
> Here we go, Fil is naming fics for Ke$ha songs, and a song on the bonus tracks of a deluxe album, no less. Sorry. Mostly. But seriously, I did it for a reason. Time after time…

The captain’s quarters weren’t large or luxurious on a shuttle as small as this one. The berth was a double at best, but perhaps would be more accurately described as a wider-than-usual single. A small dresser had been bolted to the wall opposite the berth, with barely enough room for the shuttle’s captain to fit between the two pieces of furniture. Drift sat cross-legged on his berth on the rare occasions he opened the drawers. He didn’t have that many possessions.

His “desk” was a board laying flat against the wall next to the dresser, with a handle on the underside. He could sit on the berth and pull on the handle, and the board would rotate ninety degrees, forming a flat writing surface. The desk hung suspended from the wall by a telescoping arm on the left side and a chain on the right to replace the original arm, which had broken not long after his exile. Irreparably damaged, he made it work anyway, and somehow it kept going in a reasonable approximation of its intended function.

Drift had nothing. He _was_ nothing. Everything of value he’d ever had, he’d left behind him. Everything except for the sword bolted to his back that had once belonged to someone more worthy, and the love that weighed on his spark like a stone.

Drift slumped over, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball on the berth. His hands pressed against his abdomen, as though trying to protect an open wound. He had some minor dents—and a few moderate ones—but the agony he felt was out of proportion to any physical injuries.

 _Love_ had never made a lot of sense to him. In the gutters of Rodion there was affection, certainly, but everyone knew and understood that a mech would eventually place his own needs and desires ahead of his comrades, and that was accepted, unquestioned. Later there had come adoration, worship, the obliteration of self in the fires of a glorious cause that promised to give value to a meaningless life. Eventually, eclipse, his mentor and master, forging him in fire, remaking him into something perhaps worthy…and leaving him before the final judgment. Finally, comradeship, a tentative dance of rivalry and loyalty, wrong and yet so right, a brilliant if faraway hope. 

Gasket. Megatron. Wing. Rodimus.

These people had shaped his life, and he _cared_ for them, definitely. Even if his feelings about Megatron and Wing were still mixed up with anger and hurt and confusion. Even if thoughts of Gasket and Rodimus came with echoes of loss and loneliness and uncertainty. Even if Rodimus was the reason he was here now, alone in the black.

But none of them were what Drift understood as _love_.

Talk of courtship rituals, flattering words, token gifts, flirtatious gestures…these, to Drift, were tools. He could catch a mech’s eye and make the trade—Drift got what he wanted, and so did the other. The tools meant only as much to him as what he could get by employing them.

_You’re special. I can tell._

Drift wondered now if Ratchet’s words to him, spoken so long ago, had been a blessing or a curse. Surely he had clung to them often enough in his darkest hours. And surely what he felt for Ratchet had been an infatuation, a star-struck admiration, born because Ratchet had been the first person to show him tenderness. It was an emotion the same as he’d felt for Megatron after he’d been renamed Deadlock: a one-sided devotion, all-consuming for Drift and of a certain small significance to the one he wished to serve.

But that small hard knot banged around in his spark chamber and reminded him that Hedonia had changed things.

Maybe, before Hedonia, he had adored Ratchet as he had once adored Megatron. Maybe, before Hedonia, an extra spark of kindness and the dry wasteland of Drift’s existence had lit a disproportionate and unsustainable fire. Before Hedonia, Drift could have escaped unscathed.

While everyone else on the _Lost Light_ was cutting loose and getting down and indulging in careless hedonism, Drift had been repelled by the way the place reminded him of his old life: boosting and fragging and lazing about, chasing ecstasy as the only possible escape hatch from a hollow existence. While the other Autobots drew their leave passes and went out to chase their pleasures, Drift had found himself driven down to the med bay in pursuit of the chance, the remote possibility, of experiencing the purest happiness he’d ever found: four minutes, four million years past, four precious minutes when Ratchet had held him as though he truly were as special as the medic had said.

And if Drift had gotten his fondest wish, he would have spent the rest of his life by Ratchet’s side. But Drift had never been that lucky. He’d known that Rodimus and Prowl were playing with fire when they’d chained up Overlord in the basement. He’d known that the crew would not forgive that decision if Overlord got out and hurt anyone. 

And he’d also known what would happen to the quest without Rodimus.

Drift had scoured religious texts looking for answers, but none of them described the strange…what had it been? A vision? A dream? Drift couldn’t recall well enough to define the experience.

One day he’d bumped into Brainstorm in the corridor, almost knocked that ubiquitous briefcase out of his grasp, and the next thing he knew he was coming back to himself, lying on the cold floor, with curious onlookers clustered around him. He’d gone to Ambulon and begged the medic not to tell Ratchet that he’d blacked out. Ambulon hadn’t found anything wrong with him, medically speaking.

But when Drift had returned to consciousness, he’d brought a strange memory along with him.

_He’d buried Rodimus in a coffin made out of the quantum engine housing. He’d carved the symbols into the metal himself with his Great Sword. He’d practiced the ceremony so often that he delivered it flawlessly, with a precision that earned him the grudging approval of Ultra Magnus._

_It was the last thing he could do for his best friend._

_And then…_

_There was no manual to teach Ultra Magnus the proper operational procedure for Inspiriational Quest Leadership. Drift prayed for guidance, meditated daily, but either the Knights weren’t listening or they didn’t think he was worthy. Hound ordered the_ Lost Light _to take a few jumps for morale’s sake, just so they’d have the illusion of going somewhere, but Drift knew the truth. They were floating around aimlessly, lost without Rodimus._

_Until the day the alarms went off._

Drift’s memory grew hazy at this point, and he wasn’t certain if he didn’t recall, or if his mind was deliberately refusing to look at these memories straight-on.

_Shoving Ratchet behind him, putting himself between Ratchet and the threat._

_That horrible voice, sickeningly smooth, speaking in its fatal cadence. “Deadlock…my dear Deadlock…did you really think it was as easy as taking off a badge?”_

_Knowing, horrible knowing. There was no use in bargaining for the crew’s lives. There was nowhere to run to._

_Ultra Magnus was already dead. Drift gave the order for the crew to fight, not because there was any hope of victory, but because it was marginally better to die with your swords in your hands, defiant, rather than huddled in a small space, submissive to an intolerable tyranny._

_In the end there was not much difference._

_Leading Ratchet by the hand. Ratchet couldn’t see. Not after what they’d done to him._

_Drift, deliberately not thinking about how many mechs he’d left behind to get Ratchet away from them. Not thinking about whether it was right for him to trade so many lives for Ratchet’s._

_Supply closet. Catch their breath. Regroup. Where were the shuttles? Maybe he could get Ratchet off the_ Lost Light _. Maybe…_

_Hound was already there, in Drift’s hiding place. Sobbing, his hands cradling his head. Incoherent. Broken by what he’d seen._

_Drift shoved him aside. Tucked Ratchet into the corner. Squeezed himself in between them._

_They huddled in the supply closet. Drift wondered what to do next. No time to wonder for long._

_Footsteps in the hall outside._

_Drift squeezed Ratchet’s hand._

_The door torn open…_

Drift threw his hands up in front of his face, wincing, and then he realized there was nobody there. He was in the captain’s quarters of the shuttle on which he’d been exiled and he was hiding from his own ceiling.

But he could never be sorry. He would do anything, face any pain, to make sure that future never came to pass. Rodimus would stay captain of the _Lost Light_. He had to. 

Drift knew what might happen to Ratchet—to _everyone_ —if he didn’t.

So he’d taken the blame for Rodimus, though he’d never told Ratchet why. Ratchet wouldn’t have believed him. Ratchet would have scoffed at his vision. Ratchet would have kept mocking it right up until the DJD showed up. No, Drift couldn’t have explained. He would only have gotten Ratchet angry at him.

Maybe he could have explained to Rodimus, and maybe together, they could’ve…but that was all hypothetical. Keeping Rodimus in charge was a certainty of avoiding that nightmare, whereas Drift staying and talking was only a possibility of dodging it. Drift couldn’t take those kinds of chances where his friends’ lives were concerned.

So he’d left Ratchet, just like he’d left Megatron, telling himself that Morality and Right and The Cause superseded all things, including people, especially the people who mattered to him. If it hurt, that was good, because it meant that he’d placed what was Right over his own selfish wants. 

Maybe, with Megatron, he’d been right to leave. Because Drift _had_ done horrific things in the name of the Decepticons and because Megatron _had_ never hesitated to take advantage of his willingness to do those things and because Megatron _had_ ten, twenty, a hundred Decepticons on his string and in his berth who could take Deadlock’s place and give Megatron everything that Deadlock had done. Because for all Megatron’s flattery, Drift had never been _special_ to Megatron in any way other than what he could do for him.

But not with Ratchet. Drift still couldn’t understand why, or how, but he’d been special to Ratchet in a way that nobody else had been. Drift couldn’t fathom how come there’d been nobody for Ratchet since he’d split up with Pharma. Ratchet had said there was nobody worth reaching out to in that way and Drift couldn’t help but think of a long list of names of people better than him, but no, Ratchet hadn’t agreed. Ratchet had wanted Drift for…for being _Drift_ , and if Drift had adored him before, he had felt something stronger after that, something he didn’t have a word for, but only a description. Because Drift would’ve killed for Ratchet just as he’d killed for Megatron and Gasket and Rodimus…but Ratchet…Ratchet was the only person Drift would’ve happily _died_ for.

 _But I didn’t learn anything_. Drift stared up into the murky darkness that coated his ceiling like mold. _I left Ratchet just like I left Megatron._

And leaving Megatron had never hurt this much.

Drift flipped onto his side, curling up in a ball. _Can you take it back? Can you??_

_No. No, you can’t, because you know what you saw, and you know what will happen. Without Rodimus, the quest falls apart. Without Rodimus, disaster. Without Rodimus, Ratchet dies. So better you than Rodimus. You hurt, but the others are happy, and everyone gets what they deserve._

Everyone except Ratchet. Ratchet, of all people, didn’t deserve to be abandoned. 

Drift vowed to stop thinking about Ratchet. If he didn’t, he’d forever wonder if Ratchet was missing him, then he’d hope that he was, then he’d wonder what kind of monster wished pain on the mech he loved most. No, he couldn’t think about what his leaving had meant to Ratchet, and if he had any sense of morality at all he’d hope that Ratchet had mourned for a while and then moved on. Maybe he’d found comfort with Ambulon, or…

The image made him feel sick, which was precisely why he forced himself to imagine Ambulon and Ratchet, nestled together in Ratchet’s berth— _oh, Ratchet, you and your ex-Decepticons_ —and Ratchet doing with Ambulon everything that he’d done with Drift, like that trick with his alt mode’s med bay and Ambulon on the slab weeping with pleasure and Ratchet letting out a satisfied sigh and every thought like one more blade through Drift’s spark that he soundly deserved, because he’d _left_.

He’d found someone who thought he was special and precious and worth loving, and he’d _left_.

It hurt. It still hurt, as much now and then, in defiance of the maxim that time healed all wounds. Every night, every morning, every moment Drift wasn’t actively avoiding thinking about Ratchet, this pain caught him unawares and it hurt, all over again.

Drift lay there, alone in the dark, curled into a ball, clutching his chest against the pain and wishing he could stop being in love with Ratchet. 

Emotions were supposed to be transitory, weren’t they? That’s what Wing had taught him. But his bond with Ratchet rattled around in his spark as though it had become a physical thing, hard and unyielding as stone. He could not master it or outlast it or wish it away. It existed, independent of his will, solid and undeniable, unchangeable in his lifetime.

Drift didn’t know when he’d fallen into recharge. Somewhere, in the dark sea of agony, he must have sidestepped across the line between wakefulness and sleep; but when his alert went off, telling him he’d arrived at his destination, he couldn’t remember if he’d truly gone into recharge or if his emotions had finally burned themselves out and left behind an ash so numbing that he’d forgotten his own existence until the alarm had called him back to himself.


	2. When the World Stopped Turning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...because putting this up on Valentine's Day would be Overlord-levels of sadism and I'm not quite ready to go there yet.

Chapter Two: When the World Stopped Turning

Drift was glad for the prisoners in his brig. They gave him something outside himself to focus on. He actually hoped they’d start a fight. He was itching for an excuse to tear someone ap…

 _No_ , Drift chided himself. _You don’t kill any more._

So maybe he couldn’t have what he truly craved, the sweet taste of fuel on his tongue and the satisfying heat of energon on his hands, but he could approach it at least, knock the slag out of those Decepticons, be the righteous punishment that he himself deserved to receive. He satisfied himself by sassing the prisoners as he herded them out of the ship towards the waiting arms of the Galactic Council and…

Drift’s optics travelled over and past the figure in white and red because he couldn’t be seeing what his mind was imagining. It wasn’t even the first time he’d hallucinated Ratchet. Ratchet wasn’t really there, any more than he’d been any of the other times when Drift saw him from the corner of his optic in the shuttle or among the faces on a war-ravaged planet or sitting on the edge of his berth during those long and restless nights. 

But when the hallucination demanded, in the Chief Medical Officer’s voice, if Drift was seriously leaving his prisoners with the Galactic Council, Drift was forced to reconsider.

Ratchet.

Right here in front of him.

Right now.

_Smelt me down._

Drift had to get rid of him. _Now_. Had to send Ratchet running for whatever had brought him here and _fast_ , before Drift broke down and threw himself into Ratchet’s arms and begged Ratchet to forgive him, or even just to hold him, _please_ , please even just another second together, Drift would take whatever Ratchet was willing to offer.

 _No_.

Drift had left for a reason, and he’d stayed gone for another reason, and both of those reasons were good ones. If his attempts at redemption were worth anything—if he truly wanted to be a force for good in the universe, instead of just trying to feel better about himself—he had to stand by his convictions.

Even if everything in him wanted to beg for Ratchet instead.

And even if—Drift gritted his teeth—even if apparently someone, somehow, had let slip what had happened with Overlord. It was pure hell for Drift to listen to Ratchet describe how everyone on the _Lost Light_ now knew that Drift wasn’t the one responsible for bringing Overlord on board. Drift had…Drift had turned his back on the only real home he’d ever had, and taken the blame for Rodimus’s sake, and now it was all for _nothing_?

Had they fired Rodimus from his captaincy? Was the quest in jeopardy? Had Drift not done a good enough job of covering for his best friend?

Were the DJD still coming?

Drift shoved those thoughts aside. His first reason might be gone, but his second reason remained. There were bad Decepticons out there, running around doing what Decepticons did, and Drift was in a unique position to stop them. He had a lot of old debts to settle, and perhaps a chance that he might, someday, balance his karmic scales. Before he died—and he deserved to die, there was no doubt about that—but before he died, he wanted to leave the universe better than it would have been without him. Better, not worse. It was asking a lot. 

Well, dying in the attempt would have to be noble enough.

And it absolutely would _not_ be noble in the _slightest_ if Ratchet died with him. It didn’t matter how badly Drift wanted to be with Ratchet; he couldn’t. He was doing dangerous things, and he needed Ratchet somewhere safe, preferably far away.

Memories of a vision whispered at his mind. He and Ratchet, holding hands in a supply closet, signing to one another in chirolinguistics after their voxcoders burned out from screaming. Desperate words conveyed in soft touches as life ebbed away.

_…worth it, Drift…you were worth everything._

Drift couldn’t face losing Ratchet again.

Galvanized by that certainty, Drift’s logical mind managed to batter the hungry, emotional animal part of himself into submission. It stopped screaming for Ratchet’s touch and crouched, whimpering, in the dark. Satisfied at his self-control, Drift turned his attention to Ratchet, ready to coolly tell the medic that his help wasn’t required.

Instead….and Drift wasn’t sure how this happened…instead, somehow, he ended up listening to Ratchet cut a deal with the prisoners, Before Drift knew it, he was on his way to investigate an alleged Decepticon stronghold, _with_ Ratchet, and _without_ a promise that Ratchet would leave once they’d scouted out what they were up against.

Drift’s logical mind floundered, trying to make sense of what had happened. Meanwhile, his animal self preened, very pleased with itself. 

Well, not for long.

It was going to be a long flight to the coordinates the prisoners had given. With the three Decepticons securely stowed in the brig, Drift activated the shuttle’s autopilot, preparing to settle down for another rest cycle of futile attempts at recharge. 

Once he figured out what to do with Ratchet.

“You can sleep in the captain’s cabin,” Drift said, gaze fixed on the controls.

“Where’s that?”

Primus, even hearing his voice made Drift’s spark ache.

“Right here.” It wasn’t a long trip; the captain’s cabin was the first door to the right outside the bridge. The captain had to recharge near the controls in case some emergency woke him from rest and needed his attention. Drift opened the door, showing Ratchet the interior. “Sorry it’s not much. The tarps in the bottom drawer are clean. Have a good rest.”

He deliberately avoided any questions about Ratchet— _how are you, what have you been doing, what happened on the_ Lost Light _since I left._ It would be too easy for Ratchet to misunderstand those kinds of inquiries as an invitation to stay.

_If you love him at all, he has to leave. Before you hurt him like you hurt everyone else you care for._

Gasket, Wing, even Rodimus and Megatron…they hadn’t come to good ends, had they?

Neither would Ratchet if he followed where Drift was leading.

It was some irony that Ratchet was literally following Drift now into the small hab suite. “Think we can fit us both in that bunk?”

Drift winced. “No, I…I’m sleeping somewhere else.”

“Where?”

Drift didn’t want to say. Ratchet faced him, frowning. “Drift, I need to know where to find you if there’s an emergency.”

Oh. Right. “In the cargo hold.”

Ratchet held his gaze for just a moment, frown still on his face, before he turned his head away sharply. “Goodnight, Drift.”

“Goodnight, Ratchet.”

Drift turned and walked away, fighting a smothering sensation that this situation was terribly wrong—not just for failing to live up to his fantasies, but for failing to show, in any way, what Ratchet meant to him. Even if Drift meant nothing to Ratchet any more…

But if he didn’t, why had Ratchet come for him? No, it didn’t make sense to think that Ratchet didn’t care. They still meant everything to each other. They just couldn’t show it. All that was left to them was this awkward parody of casual acquaintances between two people who were everything but.

It was wrong, and Drift didn’t know how to put it right.

He closed the door to the captain’s cabin and almost sprinted down the hallway, fighting back the sobs in his chest. It didn’t matter that he wanted to be back there with Ratchet. It didn’t matter that it hurt. Soon Ratchet would be far away, and it would, if not hurt less, at least be easier to stop himself from begging. In the meantime he had to show a little self-discipline. It was, Drift knew, the right thing to do.

#

_I can’t believe how soft I’ve become._

Drift had made himself a nest of tarps in between some of the supply crates in his cargo hold, and Primus knew he’d slept in worse. This bed had a lot of things going for it: it was dry, for one, and it was in the hold of his own ship, where he was safe, where he didn’t have to worry about strangers coming along while he recharged and robbing him or beating him or worse. It was, if not exactly clean, at least not outright filthy, and a little more oil or dust on his frame wasn’t really noticeable these days. He even had a ball of cloth wadded up for a pillow—absolute luxury. He remembered plenty of times when his neck had ached and he’d wished to have even that small comfort. 

But right now all he could think about was how he could feel the coldness of the ship's floor seeping through the nest, and how hard it was on his spinal strut, and how thin his makeshift pillow was, and how the tarps smelled musty, and he thought about all these things so he didn’t have to think about Ratchet sound asleep in the captain’s quarters. In that moment Drift would have sold almost everything he had, even his frame, to lie in Ratchet’s arms just one more time.

But not his soul. And that, of course, was the asking price.

Drift did the right thing and lay alone in the dark, vowing to protect Ratchet from the violence and carnage that followed Drift around like a collar around his neck.

Then the door to the cargo hold slid open.

Drift drew his swords the second he heard the door move. He was rising to his feet by the time he saw the figure silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the faint glow of the corridor lighting. By the time it spoke, Drift had his blades at the ready and knew he could never use them.

“Drift?” Ratchet said. “Can we talk?”

And because Drift didn’t know what had sent Ratchet after him—to the cargo bay or all the way out here—he lowered his weapons. “Okay.” After all, it wasn’t as though he was sleeping.

Ratchet walked into the hold, and when the door slid closed behind him, Drift could see only the illumination of his biolights and Drift’s own, glimmering in the dark, sending the occasional flash off of polished metal. Ratchet made his way to one of the crates near Drift’s nest and took a seat, far enough away that he wouldn’t touch Drift, not even by accident. But, Drift realized as his throat clenched, close enough for Drift to _smell_ him. Medbay and cleaning solution and safety and _Ratchet…_

Drift sheathed his swords and sat down in his nest, putting his own hands under his aft as insurance against being the one to initiate touch.

Ratchet leaned back on the crate, stretching out what Drift knew was an old ache in his spinal strut. There had been a time when Drift’s hands had soothed that ache, and though Drift still knew how, it was no longer his place to help. 

Ratchet looked at him, and he looked back at Ratchet, and time stretched on in hollow silence until Ratchet sighed, as though frustrated. 

Drift would take no responsibility for that. “You said you wanted to talk,” he said, his words clipped, “so go ahead. _Talk_.” To him each second with Ratchet in arm’s reach was pure torture. He wanted this ordeal over with.

“I…Drift, I’m sorry, I hadn’t expected things to have changed so much between us.”

Drift blinked. “What, you expected we’d just pick up where we left off?” He laced his voice with sarcasm to hide his shock. Ratchet couldn’t have come to him just for a…an intergalactic booty call!

“I knew things would be different but I didn’t expect _how_ different, that you wouldn’t….didn’t…”

“What, that I wouldn’t want to frag you?” Drift sneered, because of course that was exactly what he wanted to do, and he hated himself for it.

“I didn’t say that.” Ratchet’s voice was stern. He sounded either angry or hurt. Drift couldn’t tell which. “I didn’t come here because I was revved up. I came here because I care about you, and…and I wanted to be with you, or at least be sure you’re okay…”

“And it doesn’t matter,” Drift said harshly, “because I dumped you.”

Ratchet recoiled. His breath was a hiss in the silence of the cargo hold.

“So hey, yeah, thanks for checking on me. I’m fine. Now you can go.”

Ratchet’s voice was hard and cold when he spoke again. “I don’t remember you breaking up with me.”

“I left, remember?”

“You were exiled.”

“You told _me_ you knew I’d volunteered to take the fall.”

“You _didn’t_ tell me you were breaking up with me,” Ratchet argued. He folded his arms. “Drift, I would have remembered those words. You didn’t say them.”

“I didn’t think I had to!” Drift was incredulous. “I left you, to help Rodimus, without telling you why…I chose Rodimus over you…isn’t that _enough_?”

“For you to dump me? No, you never said the words.” Ratchet leaned over on the crate, shoving his face right up in Drift’s, growling his response. “For me to break up with _you_? Any sane mechanism might think so, but as it turns out, _no_. As far as I’m concerned we’re still together.” 

Drift spluttered, floundering, not sure what to do. His instincts reminded him that the best defense was a good _offence_ , and he listened to them, rising to his feet, squaring off against Ratchet until their noses touched. “Fine. I’m breaking up with you. Right here. Right now.”

Ratchet flinched.

And Drift knelt there, frozen, breathing heavily, feeling the pieces of his world slowly beginning to fall in shattered fragments all around him.


	3. Bed of Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my lovely commentators: this has been a difficult story to reply on, because spoilers etc. But all your comments are very much appreciated.
> 
> Warnings on this chapter: mentions of past tense Ratchet/Pharma and past tense Deadlock/Megatron; traumatic dreams; traumatic memories.

Drift couldn’t believe he’d just said those words.

_I’m breaking up with you._

He knew why he couldn’t take them back, even though it felt as though his spark was being torn out of his chest. Getting his Decepticon badge taken from his own spark casing hadn’t hurt this much. Taking it off hadn’t hurt this much. Even losing his Autobot badge hadn’t hurt this much.

And seeing the look on Ratchet’s face made Drift realize just how much of a monster he truly was.

Then Ratchet gritted his teeth. “No.”

“What?” Drift asked stupidly.

“I said _no_. You are not breaking up with me.”

“What?” Drift repeated himself because he couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say. “You can’t just…it’s not a question!”

“You don’t mean it, so I ‘m not listening to it. No, _I am not leaving you_.”

Drift’s mind spun in panicked circles. Ratchet was always so respectful, so sure of consent before he’d done anything with Drift. To have him suddenly take no notice of Drift’s words was shocking and upsetting. On the other hand, maybe Ratchet knew better than Drift whether Drift’s mental state was rational or not—whether Drift was even mentally capable of making such a decision in the state he was currently in. Drift did know he was angry and scared and impulsive right now, and that fighting with Ratchet was so much easier than trying to explain to him that he was inevitably going to fight himself to death and he didn’t want Ratchet there to see it or worse, to try to stop him…

Drift felt too confused and fatigued and, yes, hurt, to talk about it any more. He needed Ratchet to leave him alone until his head stopped spinning. He turned away and sat down heavily in his makeshift nest. “What are you even doing down here?” Drift snapped at Ratchet, changing the subject. “All of this nonsense, it could’ve waited until morning.”

Ratchet opened his mouth, ready to argue. A sound was already coming out of his vocalizer when he shut his lips and swallowed it down. The light coming from his optics dimmed, and then he spoke again. “Yes, you’re right,” Ratchet murmured. Drift heard him fidget on the crate. “I came down here because I…because I need help.”

Those words sent a hook through Drift’s spark. Help? Ratchet? What could possibly have happened that would send Ratchet seeking help from the likes of him?

“Use your hand,” Drift said bitterly, hoping—praying—that there wasn’t something seriously wrong with Ratchet, something Drift couldn’t fix without getting too close again.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Ratchet couldn’t keep the hurt from his voice. Drift’s fuel pump skipped a beat, instinctively responding to Ratchet’s pain. The realization that he’d been responsible for it stung like a lash.

“Sorry. I just…I can’t do interface. Or foreplay.” The words tasted dull to Drift. He realized he said them for his own benefit, not for Ratchet’s. Because Ratchet wasn’t flirting with him. He was the one trying to control what his own frame was screaming for.

“Okay. I understand, and I won’t ask that from you.” Ratchet took a deep breath. “Would you give me your arm so I can plug in my diagnostics?”

Drift eyed him skeptically, even as his right hand crept to the cover on his left forearm. “You already made me sit through one checkup today. And a bunch of minor repairs. Even though you’re not my doctor any more.”

“First Aid’s not here, and the law allows for emergency treatment between p…between former partners.”

“My doctor’s Ambulon, and it wasn’t an emergency.”

“I…” Ratchet’s expression was inscrutable, but Drift’s instincts lit up. Something felt off. Wrong. What had he said that had tripped Ratchet’s triggers? “That’s a matter of judgment,” Ratchet finished shakily.

“So you want to check me again.”

“I want…can I…” Ratchet drew air deeply into his intakes. “If you could leave them plugged in while I recharge, I’d…I’d be in your debt.”

That request was just _weird_ , and combined with whatever he’d seen in Ratchet’s demeanor, it made Drift feel unsettled. “I thought you said plugging in your diagnostics didn’t give you any jollies.”

“It doesn’t, and I promised not to ask for interface or even foreplay, and I’m going to keep that promise.”

“But you wouldn’t listen when I said I was dumping you.”

Ratchet grasped the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and his thumb. “I’d hoped you were just angry but…Okay, Drift. If that’s what you want, okay. Have it your way. We’re not a courting couple any more.”

And it wasn’t what Drift wanted, it wasn’t what he wanted at all, but it was how it had to be. “Okay,” Drift said. “Okay, as long as you understand that, then sure, you can plug them in.”

Drift snapped open the cover on his forearm, offering it to Ratchet, and for just a moment he caught the glimmer of his biolights reflecting the word inscribed in the living metal inside the cover: _forgiven_. He wondered if this diagnostic business was just a ploy to get him to see the engraving. He decided it didn’t matter if it was. Ratchet had carved the word into Drift’s metal months before his exile. Drift was not forgiven for any of the sins he’d committed since then.

He shoved his makeshift pillow up against a crate and pinned it there with his shoulder. He shifted, trying to get comfortable leaning his head up against the top of the crate next to the one where Ratchet sat. Ratchet’s diagnostic cables bridged the gap between them as Ratchet plugged them into the sockets in Drift’s arm. Drift could barely feel they were there.

_Good._

_Ratchet’s touching you and you feel nothing._

His spark ached with the wrongness of it, but Drift ignored it. Tender feelings caused pain; pain distracted him from his goals. Let it hurt. Let it hurt until his emotions burned themselves out completely. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to be distracted by grief or regrets any longer.

He dimmed his optics so he wouldn’t have to look at Ratchet any more.

Drift hadn’t intended on falling asleep, but his frame’s needs could only be denied for so long. Coupled with the soft scent of medbay wafting into his nest from the place where Ratchet sat, carrying with it subconscious associations of safety and being cared for… Under the two-pronged assault, Drift had no chance. 

The next thing he knew, he was waking up to a voice calling a name that wasn’t his.

#

“Pharma.”

Drift came awake quickly at the sound of Ratchet’s voice. A sense of wrongness had haunted his recharge, and when he felt the cold, thrumming floor of the shuttle underneath his body, smelled the dusty tarps that wrapped him, saw the crates rising like walls around his makeshift bunk, he remembered right away where he was—and why. He brightened his bio-lights and traced Ratchet’s diagnostic cables from his forearm to the place where the medic sat, slumped over, on top of a crate. 

Ratchet had twisted his body so he was half-lying, half-sitting with his feet up on the same crate as his aft and his left shoulder resting on a crate behind him, forming a crude lounge. His head lolled against his shoulder and he mumbled in his sleep. “Pharma…I’m not playing your game.”

It wasn’t uncommon for Ratchet to say Pharma’s name during recharge, and Drift was surprised as always by how little it bothered him. The other Autobots had always acted as though it were a cardinal sin to call out for a past lover in one’s sleep. To Drift’s mind, though, it made sense that when Ratchet’s mind floated between wakefulness and dream, of course its first conclusion would be that the warmth it felt was that of its longtime _conjunx endura_. 

It was the same reason why Ratchet teased Drift about being so polite in bed…because Drift would respond to being wakened by kisses with a murmured, “Good morning, sir.” Drift wondered if Ratchet had ever figured out that his sleeping mind automatically interpreted the sturdy warmth behind him as Megatron’s.

So no, Drift didn’t take it personally when Ratchet talked about Pharma. Drift just stopped whatever he was doing—especially if it was romantic—put his hands on Ratchet’s cheeks, and told the Chief Medical Officer to wake up.

The light would go on in those beautiful blue optics. Ratchet’s lips would frown in confusion and then his gaze would focus, ah, then he’d recognize Drift and his optics would sparkle and his mouth would curve in the most wonderful smile… Drift would kiss him, and whatever Drift had been doing, he’d find himself invited to continue by a wide awake and cheerfully consenting Ratchet. And Drift would feel this incredible thrill when he realized that Ratchet knew exactly who he was and wanted him anyway…no, wanted him _because_ of who he was.

Drift was up on his knees, reaching up to cup Ratchet’s face in his palms, when he remembered that he and Ratchet were no longer courting. Drift froze. He had no right to wake Ratchet with a kiss; and there would be no pleasure following the medic’s awakening. They weren’t a couple any longer, and Drift didn’t know how to answer Ratchet’s call.

Drift held still, watching and waiting, hoping Ratchet would wake up on his own. Ratchet’s head twisted from left to right, and Ratchet muttered, “Let me out of the box.” 

The cables in Drift’s arm pulsed wildly. Drift’s systems could only roughly translate the queries:

_Who are you?_

It was a change from the prior inquries. All night long, Ratchet’s coding had asked him over and over: _are you okay?_

Now, a different demand came through the cables. _Identify. Who are you?_

 _Drift_ , his processors answered.

There was a long pause, as though Ratchet was trying and failing to process that information.

_Query repeats. Who are you?_

Ratchet’s expression crumpled into a wince. Drift’s breath caught in his intakes. Ratchet muttered, “Put me back…put me back together right now. _Pharma_ …let me out of the box!”

Ratchet no longer looked like a mech murmuring his lover’s name in his sleep. He looked like a victim caught in the teeth of a nightmare. Courting or not, Drift couldn’t stay still and watch Ratchet suffer. He put his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders and shook gently. “Ratchet! Ratchet, wake up.”

_Who are you?_

“Ratchet!”

Ratchet’s optics lit. Their light was dull, slow to illuminate. Drift bit his lower lip, unable to explain his sudden feeling of fear.

“Drift?” Ratchet asked groggily.

 _Identify. Who are you?_ pulsed the cables in his arm.

 _Drift,_ his systems answered again, over and over, the question repeating relentlessly, his answer involuntary and always the same.

“Yeah,” Drift said quietly. “Wake up.”

Ratchet’s optics flickered. “You’re all right.” It was Ratchet, in the end, who initiated touch when he reached out to cup Drift’s cheek.

“Yeah.” And he was. Ratchet had seen to it. His armour might still be grimy, but his internals were functioning at optimum capacity.

“I’m….” Ratchet looked down at himself, and his other hand stroked his own chest, his own thighs, as though he wasn’t sure that his own frame was part of his body. “I’m together.”

“Yes,” Drift answered, in response to the sort of question that should have been taken for granted.

“ _Drift_ ,” Ratchet said, and the next thing Drift knew, Ratchet had slid off the crates and crashed to his knees, his arms around Drift’s midsection. Drift caught a glimpse of Ratchet’s face twisted up in wild desperation and then Ratchet’s nose pressed against the join between Drift’s neck and his shoulder. Drift’s arms folded around Ratchet’s back, and his medic—his rock—trembled. Drift thought he heard a sob.

Drift reacted instinctively. He pulled Ratchet close, drawing him down and to the side, into the nest of tarps. Drift shoved his makeshift pillow under Ratchet’s head, then tugged a tarp over the both of them, careful not to tug or tangle the diagnostic cables that still connected them together. He pulled the shivering medic close to his chest and angled his head, trying to get a look at Ratchet’s face. It wasn’t easy. Ratchet wanted to keep his face buried in Drift’s neck, while his body shook involuntarily. And Ratchet’s vocalizer had given up on silence. Ratchet was making a series of unhappy moans punctuated by needy cries, and it twisted Drift’s fuel tanks, because Drift had never heard Ratchet sound like this before.

 _He’s not your partner any more,_ Drift’s brain informed him unhelpfully.

Drift didn’t care. There didn’t have to be anything sexual, or even romantic, about Ratchet being here with him in his crude berth. Ratchet needed help, and be damned if Drift wouldn’t help him. 

“What do you need?” Drift whispered urgently. “Ratchet, tell me what you need, and I’ll get it, I’ll do it.”

Drift’s voice seemed to shock Ratchet back to himself. He drew away from Drift’s shoulder.

But when Drift saw Ratchet’s face, his internal systems began to flash red strobes of alarm.

Ratchet’s optics were slightly unfocused. His lower lip trembled. His brow was furrowed as though he winced against pain. Drift had never seen Ratchet lose control, and it was terrifying. He didn’t look like the Chief Medical Officer any more. He looked old and tired and on the verge of wrecking, and Drift had to fight the urge to panic. 

Because he couldn’t afford to panic. Ratchet was hurt and he’d come to Drift, and be damned if Drift would let him down.

“Did he get you too?” Ratchet asked anxiously. He took Drift’s hand in his own and squeezed. Drift let him.

“Who?” Drift had no idea what Ratchet meant. “Ratchet, I’m okay, you’re okay, we’re safe. Who are you talking about?”

“Pharma,” Ratchet muttered, dropping his gaze. “Pharma and…and Tyrest.”

Drift blinked. He didn’t understand what Ratchet meant—wasn’t Tyrest that chief justice Ultra Magnus had been so fond of quoting?—but he had a terrible and growing suspicion that something awful had happened after he left the _Lost Light_ , and Ratchet had been caught up in it.

And Drift hadn’t been there to help.

“They aren’t here,” Drift said, hoping he was doing the right thing. Primus knew it would be easier if they were—fighting was something Drift knew how to do, very well. This _reassurance_ business really wasn’t one of Drift’s strong suits.

Ratchet sat up, supporting himself, and his optics came into focus. “They’re gone? We’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Drift said, faking a smile. “We’re okay.”


	4. Candle in the Valley of the Shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of recent canon events, what's changed about this story?
> 
> Not a damned thing.
> 
> *

Chapter Four: Candle in the Valley of the Shadow

Ratchet’s hand crept to the back of his neck. Rubbed. And his features collapsed into a scowl, while his gaze locked on nothingness somewhere over Drift’s left shoulder. “Drift had better be real,” Ratchet growled to empty air.

It sounded like a _threat_. Not the idle medbay fantasy of _I’d like to weld your mouth shut_ or _stay still before I clamp you to the table_ ….this was an actual promise of impending malice and it tripped all Drift’s danger triggers. Drift kept control on his own instincts because Ratchet didn’t seem to be directing it at him. Ratchet looked around him, _through_ him, and said, “If you’re making me think I see Drift…if you’ve done anything _to_ Drift…then I will kill you, and to the Pit with my medical oaths, I will _make you suffer_.”

Drift shivered. He wanted to think this didn’t sound like Ratchet, but in truth what it sounded like was Ratchet backed into a corner the way he had been long ago, when Gasket’s lifeless body had leaked the last of its energon into the street and when Drift’s finger had first closed around the trigger of a gun. 

There was a place where morality was a luxury. Drift had been there. Had Ratchet?

“Ratchet?” Drift asked nervously. 

Ratchet looked at Drift, though he kept swatting at the nape of his own neck.

“Are you high?”

Ratchet pressed his lips together. “No.” His fingers raked at his spinal strut. “I just hope I’m in my right mind.”

Suddenly Drift realized what Ratchet was doing. The nape of the neck was where the needles went when a menmosurgeon enacted Shadowplay. And Ratchet had once before been the unwilling recipient of one of Bludgeon’s pseudo-occult experiments.

Ratchet thought Drift was a hallucination caused by someone else’s malicious tampering.

“Ratchet?” Drift whispered, his fuel tank churning. “Ratchet, did they Shadowplay you?”

Ratchet stopped swatting at his neck and slowly lowered his hand. “No. I don’t think so. But I…I…” Ratchet’s optics flickered, then brightened. He looked around the cargo bay as though he were seeing it for the first time. “What the…”

“Hey.” Drift waved his hand in Ratchet’s face, forcing the medic to pay attention to him. His throat was tight with terror and his fuel tank felt as though it had been punched, but he couldn’t afford to waste his attention on his own pathetic frame when _something was wrong with Ratchet_. He needed Ratchet back in his right mind and back in control, because Primus knew Drift wasn’t worth trusting to take care of the both of them. “Ratchet, you need to pay attention to me.”

Ratchet focused his optics on Drift and nodded.

“Okay. I want you to run a deeper diagnostic on me.” Drift lifted his arm, where Ratchet’s cables were still plugged into his receptors. 

Ratchet hesitated, but then he took the suggestion. Drift knew, because the familiar query— _who are you?_ —pulsed in his systems, and they replied _Drift_ automatically as they always did and then Ratchet threw his arms around Drift again, squeezing firmly but gently, holding him tight.

“Drift,” Ratchet said in Drift’s audial, “Drift, it’s you, Drift, I found you, Drift, and you’re all right, and it’s really you, _Drift_ …” He pressed his weight into Drift’s chest.

“Yeah,” Drift murmured. 

It was hard for him to carry the brunt of Ratchet’s weight. Ratchet was bulky and impossibly solid. Drift had many fond memories of sprawling out atop Ratchet, who easily carried Drift’s weight. Drift couldn’t do the same. His frame was built for speed, not for propping up someone Ratchet’s size. The best Drift could do with the burden placed on him was a semi-controlled descent onto his back. Soon he was flat on the floor in his makeshift nest with Ratchet on top of him, pulling him close.

Drift wriggled, trying to get out from under the bulk of Ratchet’s weight, but he realized that he had no desire to try to escape. Not when Ratchet was clinging to him so desperately. And not when his own frame was so intent on making a liar out of him. He’d told Ratchet he wasn’t interested in anything sexual, but his body disagreed. Rather emphatically. There was something about having Ratchet _practically on top of him_ that made him run hot. The fact that he’d never though he’d get to be this close to Ratchet again made it worse.

Still, Drift was going to keep it to himself. Maybe he couldn’t quite hide the fact that his fans were running at a higher-than-usual speed, but he didn’t need to draw attention to it, either. There were more important things at stake than his own arousal. Ratchet’s emotional state, for example. Ratchet was upset and disoriented and vulnerable, and Drift would rather take a blade through the spark than try to take advantage of someone in that condition for his own gratification.

No, Drift was going to grit his teeth and content himself with whatever contact Ratchet sought from him. 

Ratchet clung to Drift with desperate force, shivering, pressing their frames together. Drift allowed himself the luxury of clinging back. Primus, he felt so _good_ …so warm and alive, so _affectionate_. Drift wanted to press against him until the two of them merged into one being, whole and indivisible, a single spark against the darkness.

And Ratchet seemed to feel the same. The medic’s hands stroked Drift’s shoulders, his back, urging him ever closer…and then, after an indeterminable time, they dropped to his hips. Clever fingers hooked into the seams of the metal plate that guarded Drift’s interface equipment. Tugged.

It had to be an accident, or a mistake, but then Ratchet tugged again, more insistently. Drift blinked himself out of hazy comfort-stupor and stared as Ratchet’s brow furrowed. He pawed at the clasps on Drift’s armour as if not sure how to operate them. Drift had the crazy idea that Ratchet might just rip the protective cover right off. And Drift couldn’t find it in himself to protest. The idea sent a shiver of arousal snaking down his backstrut, lancing into his already active array and amping up the sensitivity.

But then Ratchet, too, seemed to come back to his senses.

Ratchet looked up at Drift pleadingly, his hands still touching the plate.

Drift bit his lip, because his head told him to ask Ratchet to stop, his heart told him to say yes, and his soul refused to weigh in on either side.

“Please,” Ratchet whispered.

The look in his optics wasn’t desire. It was desperation. That made up Drift’s mind on the spot.

He’d never refuse anything Ratchet needed. 

“Yeah,” Drift said, nodding.

Only after Drift had agreed did Ratchet proceed. His hands were unsteady, slipping off the clasps. Drift hated to see those precise fingers so clumsy. He had to help take the armour away and set it aside.

Ratchet didn’t grope him. Didn’t try to touch. He folded his hands around Drift’s wrists and guided Drift’s hands to his own armour. Drift read the question in his optics.

“Yours off?” Drift guessed.

Ratchet nodded.

Drift opened the clasps slowly, watching Ratchet all the while. Ratchet’s armour joined Drift’s. And Drift waited, not sure what Ratchet needed now.

Ratchet held him again, drew him close, and this time there were no protective covers between their cords. Their cables rubbed against one another as they pressed into each other, caressed each other, clung tightly to one another. 

Drift felt his head spin. He’d heard some Autobots liked to touch cables. He’d wanted to try it with Ratchet, but they never had. They’d never gotten around to it before they ran out of time. It was good. Drift wondered if maybe it would’ve been better not to find out how good it was. Maybe that would’ve been smarter than tasting it this one time, knowing he could never have it again.

He shouldn’t be having it now. _What in the Pit did he think he was doing?_

Damned, he was truly damned now, if he hadn’t been already, if he hadn’t been from the very moment he rolled off that assembly line, unit 501 in a factory run of 500, unwanted, unneeded, superfluous to requirements.

Well, if he’d been damned before he even came online, then now he had nothing to lose.

He gave himself to Ratchet, gave himself completely. For whatever he was worth, he was Ratchet’s now. 

The former Chief Medical Officer held him as though he had value, and more. As though he were Ratchet’s anchor in a thick sea that threatened to swallow him. As though he were the only light in a very long valley of shadow. 

Drift gave him what comfort he could, and felt unutterable relief when he saw the furrows between Ratchet’s brows relax. The light in the medic’s eyes turned from wan and inconsistent to warm and steady. Ratchet’s lips curved, at last, into a soft smile.

Only then did Drift recognize that his cable was wet. His valve was damp, but Ratchet’s had to be absolutely dripping given the amount of lubricant smeared around on their equipment and their thighs besides. Drift felt a bit embarrassed about rolling around in filth when he was trying to be comforting. He pulled away a little, fumbling for the edge of a tarp so they could clean up.

Except that Ratchet grasped his hips and tilted them, pulling him close. Drift felt the tip of his cable jack nudge Ratchet’s slick and swollen valve lips. Drift gasped.

Ratchet released him immediately. For a moment they were frozen like erotic statuary, poised on the brink of interface, still and unmoving. Drift shouldn’t proceed. Didn’t want to pull away. Couldn’t think.

Ratchet spoke a single syllable, barely coherent: “Want?”

Drift nodded, ashamed.

“Me, too,” Ratchet confessed.

“Can we?” Drift whispered, because he still wasn’t sure.

“Not stopping you.”

Drift bit his lip. His resolve wavered like a small flame in a strong wind. “Probably gonna.”

“Yeah.”

And with _that_ , Drift’s brain pieced together that Ratchet wanted to interface, and accepted that Drift was likely to proceed, and had no intentions of objecting. If Ratchet was going to accept him and genuinely wanted to do this, then Drift could do what he wanted, and what he wanted was to bring the position Ratchet had guided him into to its expected and natural conclusion.

What followed would never be rated as the best interface they’d had together. Ratchet’s calipers fluttered wildly before Drift even jacked into the port at the top of Ratchet’s valve; and he’d barely started upload before Ratchet overloaded under him. Once that happened, well, Drift, who’d gone from resigning himself to the fact that he’d never get to feel that tight, wet heat snug around his interface cable again—because he didn’t want anything to do with interface unless Ratchet was involved—to go from that regretful celebacy to suddenly finding himself inexplicably wrapped in Ratchet’s arms, in Ratchet’s valve…Drift had no stamina against those odds. Drift overloaded too, unable to hold himself back. Drift’s only consolation was that Ratchet gasped and clutched at him again, meaning he’d either given Ratchet a second overload or else prolonged the first one. It would have to do. Drift collapsed on Ratchet’s chest, utterly spent, his jack still connected to Ratchet’s port.

Ratchet’s engine purred. The former Chief Medical Officer sighed with contentment. Whatever had gotten him so agitated before seemed to have been laid to rest. His whole frame relaxed next to Drift’s. Whatever else they’d done, the encounter had brought Ratchet back to his usual self.

Drift lay still for a while, attempting to parse the situation and the growing sense of wrongness chewing at the back of his mind, though Ratchet’s warmth made him want to forget everything else. Eventually he tried to get his knees and hands braced to take his weight and pull his cable out of Ratchet’s valve, but Ratchet curled his arms around Drift’s waist and held him immobile.

“No,” Ratchet whispered. “Don’t go.”

Drift’s cable didn’t respond, much as Drift wished it would. He’d been running close to empty too long. His body was exhausted. And Ratchet didn’t seem in the mood for another round either. His optics were already dim.

“I’m gonna fall asleep,” Drift warned, “still jacked in.”

“Yeah,” Ratchet replied with a smile, leaning his head back into the makeshift pillow.

_Was that a thing? Was that a thing people did?_ Drift felt a little shocked, but he also knew there was absolutely no way he was budging out of his current position if Ratchet didn’t want him to.

Ratchet, in fact, looked as though he was already asleep. He still looked tired and worn to Drift, but the frantic fear had eased from his features. His lips curved in a soft smile as his internals thrummed in a contented, regular pattern. His diagnostic cables—still buried in Drift’s diagnostic ports—pinged a slow, contented pattern. _Designation: Ratchet. Query? Ah, Drift. Welcome. Designation: Ratchet. Query? Ah…_

Drift wanted to watch over him all night. But the same exhaustion that ruled out Round Two soon had Drift’s head resting on Ratchet’s windshield, Drift’s optics turning out, Drift’s systems slipping into recharge.


	5. Stuck in the Middle with You

Chapter Five: Stuck in the Middle with You

Drift’s dreams were not as they should have been. He seemed to float in a hazy pool of memories. Glimpses of discrete moments in his past rose to the surface, coalesced, were clear for a moment and then popped, disappearing into nothingness. So often he saw fragments of his vision of the future _Lost Light_ and the DJD and the devastation he prayed he’d been able to prevent. 

And he dreamed of Ratchet. That, in itself, was nothing new, but never before had he dreamed of Ratchet so close that he was inside his head, in his brain, in his spark. He should be terrified—the very essence of his self was being polluted by an invader—but this was _Ratchet_ , and somehow it seemed right that his edges should grow indistinct, until he wasn’t sure where he ended and Ratchet began, and in that zone of overlap between them something new lived and breathed and had its being, something that was more than just Drift and Ratchet together, more than the addition of two parts. It was at a higher level, and it was beautiful, but it could not exist without the two of them together.

How tragic, then, that Drift would need to end it. 

How sorrowful that for Ratchet to live, Drift would have to leave him and the rest of the _Lost Light_ and make sure that the nightmare future he’d seen in his vision never came to pass.

Drift reminded himself that he’d taken plenty of lives before, and that perhaps the reason he was still alive, despite all he’d done, was that the gods had spared him for one great sacrifice. The _Lost Light_ and everyone aboard, saved, and Drift the scapegoat for all their sins.

This was right and as it should be.

But Drift could still feel Ratchet. Could _smell_ the comforting scent of medbay in his intakes. Could taste warm metal as the rumble of Ratchet’s engines vibrated contentedly against his frame.

Could feel the soft embrace of calipers pulsing gently against his cord. 

Drift jerked awake, shocked by the strange sensation on a very intimate part of his antatomy. He expected to find himself alone in his berth, his armour off and his interface equipment exposed. He was ready to feel vulnerable, lonely, helpless, even dirty.

He wasn’t ready to see Ratchet underneath him.

Immediately his spark leapt and his brain cringed back. Drift held his breath at the shock, wondering if his frame could really tear itself apart. Half of him wanted to grab Ratchet and never let him go while the other half screamed in warning that he’d screwed up, that he’d put Ratchet in danger and the rest of the _Lost Light_ too, and he had to fix this mistake, _now_ , before the blood of everyone he loved was on his hands. If he even _could_ fix it any more. 

Frozen in horror, his mind fled to a different topic entirely. Something moist and very tight, shoving gently at his cord. 

Drift realized he’d spent the night jacked in to Ratchet— _oh, Primus, we interfaced, I thought I screwed it up before but now we’re fragging too, you were supposed to leave him, not ‘face with him again and…_

_…I did break up with him._

_Oh, Primus, I ‘faced him anyway._

_Oh, Primus, I loved it. And I’m pretty sure he did too._

_What am I going to do now?_

Drift felt his cable slip out of Ratchet’s valve. He realized that when he’d jerked awake, he’d broken the connection between the jack at the tip of his cord and the port buried deep in Ratchet’s valve. Without that anchor, Ratchet’s calipers were fluttering against the invasion, trying to return to their normal closed position after last night’s interface, and slowly but gently guiding Drift’s cable out of Ratchet’s body.

Drift wondered if he should feel rejected, but he pushed that thought out of his mind. This was natural, right? Two mechs couldn’t stay connected forever. Valves needed time to recover and reset, didn’t they?

Drift supposed he could wake up the medical professional and _ask_ , but he felt a little awkward and, worse, still so confused.

He’d done the right thing and broken up with Ratchet and here they were together anyway. Holding one another anyway. Interfacing anyway. Their frames still tied together by Ratchet’s diagnostic cables.

Drift felt as though those cables connected their sparks as well as their bodies, tying them together, now and always. Drift had always thought that breakups happened after feelings died; or, in the inverse, that feelings died after breakups. You parted ways, it hurt, you cried and then the feelings went away. He hadn't expected his love for Ratchet to stubbornly cling to life, refusing to budge at all. Now, Drift had no idea what to do with emotions that refused to lessen despite the relationship’s end.

He tucked away his interface equipment and reattached his armour, but he couldn’t change what they’d done together. His hands trembled as he put Ratchet’s armour back in place too. 

Then he lay with his head on Ratchet’s shoulder, his arm draped across Ratchet’s body, and tried to think. His thoughts ran in circles and kept coming back to the beginning again. 

Ratchet felt good next to him.

But love wasn’t enough, and Drift couldn’t stay with him.

Drift would enjoy Ratchet’s nearness while he could.

Then he’d do the right thing and leave.

But Ratchet had come after him.

And Drift hadn’t done enough to drive him away because…

Ratchet felt good next to him.

The loop began again.

Drift wasn’t sure how often his thoughts made the circle before Ratchet stirred. Drift’s spark cried out in protest. This moment was coming to a natural end and Drift wasn’t ready yet. He knew in that moment he never would be ready to leave Ratchet again.

Ratchet’s optics flickered on. 

Drift braced himself. If he could leave again, he should do it now.

Ratchet cried out. The medic reached up his arms and grabbed Drift in a hug so tight it almost hurt. The diagnostic cables pulsed madly in his arm, bombarding his system with constant requests for identification and authentication even as Ratchet subbed when the requests kept coming back positive for Drift.

Drift couldn’t help it. He hugged Ratchet back, holding onto him as if his will alone could overcome the forces tearing them apart.

Drift wasn’t sure how long it was before their mutual desperation eased. At some point they stopped gripping one another as though each were the other’s lifeline. Their frames relaxed, and with Drift draped over Ratchet’s body in that old familiar way, they nuzzled one another, exchanging kisses that were nothing more than brushes of lips over cheeks and soft bunts of noses. 

This. This felt _right_ , no matter what anyone’s logic said.

But Drift was still a little concerned about Ratchet’s clinging hugs and the occasional query from diagnostics that should know very well by now that Drift was himself, present, alive. That wasn’t the Ratchet Drift remembered, and the difference was disconcerting. Drift held Ratchet close, offering comfort and reassurance, and Ratchet’s diagnostic lines thrummed with queries that Drift couldn’t interpret, though he knew his systems were relinquishing medical data in response.

But when Drift tried to understand how Ratchet had come to be like this, he didn’t like the answer. Pharma and...and Tyrest had done something terrible and _Drift hadn’t been there._

His gaze fell on Ratchet’s forearm, where Drift had carved a series of sigils on the underside of Ratchet’s diagnostic hatch. _The doctor—is under the protection of—Drift—When we’re together, we are home._

Well, _that_ was a pack of lies, wasn’t it?

Drift fought down the urge to laugh hysterically. Just like _forgiven_ , Drift had meant it when he’d carved it, but of course things hadn’t turned out that way, now had they?

Ratchet drew back. His hand rested on Drift’s chest, and he looked at Drift questioningly.

Of course. Drift had managed to keep his mouth shut, but he hadn’t stopped the insane laughter from causing his chest to shake.

“Come on, then,” Drift said, his optics lit with a manic glow, because the pain was blossoming into a nova in his spark and might as well get this over with, might as well embrace the destruction he’d been seeking. “Come on and tell me what you want to say to me.”

_Where were you when I needed you?_

_Come on and say it._

Ratchet’s mouth moved, and then he looked at Drift with desperation in his eyes, and slowly Drift realized that the words Ratchet had actually spoken were not the words Drift had imagined.

“What did you say?” Drift asked incredulously.

Ratchet winced, but he steeled himself and spoke again. “I said I’m so very sorry,” Ratchet repeated, “that I let you down.”

It made no sense. It made absolutely no sense. Drift exploded. “What?! You’re the one who’s supposed to be angry at me! Something horrible happened to you and I wasn’t there to protect you, like I promised I would be!” Drift gestured frantically at Ratchet’s open forearm panel, where the damning evidence had been carved by his own hand.

“Drift.” Ratchet put a gentle hand on Drift’s lips.

The touch shocked Drift into silence. He savoured the warmth of Ratchet’s kind touch, and hated himself for it, because the right thing to do would be to pull away. It would be better. And easier, in the long run. It was also completely beyond his means to accomplish. He leaned into Ratchet’s palm instead.

“I’m still trying to understand why you left,” Ratchet said slowly. “Those memories you uploaded last night are very confusing to me, and I’m still trying to sort them out.” 

_Oh, smelt me down._

_I was jacked in to Ratchet all night._

_Those memories…My vision. He saw it._

“I don’t understand what you saw, or _how_ you could have seen it, and it…it hurts that you didn’t try to explain. At the time…at the time I really thought the Overlord thing was your idea. When I found out it wasn’t…when Rodimus told us that Prowl had suggested it and he had authorized it…I…” Ratchet bit his lip. “I wish you’d told me.”

“I wanted to,” Drift moaned against Ratchet’s hand. “But I was supposed to keep my arrangement with Rodimus confidential.”

“I know you were.” Ratchet sighed. “You were just trying to be a good Autobot, weren’t you?”

Drift nodded miserably.

“So you left, for reasons I still don’t understand but I…I have to believe were important to you.”

Drift nodded again. His hands clutched at Ratchet’s wrist. “Please. If I hadn’t thought everything depended on it…I never would’ve left you.”

“I believe you.” Ratchet lifted his other hand, placed it over Drift’s. “You left because you felt you had to go. And then I let you down.”

“I don’t understand,” Drift whispered. “What did you do that was so bad?”

“You left,” Ratchet answered, “and I… _I didn’t go with you_.”


	6. That Was My Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, there's a small AU in here. After writing this I realized that Ratchet didn't know about Velocity until Dying of the Light, because she arrived after he left. I like the conversation, though, so I'm choosing to leave it as it stands. It won't make any huge difference to anything else in the story.

Chapter Six: That Was My Mistake

Drift sat frozen, thunderstruck. Never once had he ever considered that Ratchet might or could or ought to go into exile with him. “But…but you’re the Chief Medical Officer!”

“I _was_ the Chief Medical Officer,” Ratchet corrected, “past tense. I quit.” Ratchet swallowed hard. “I quit to come looking for you.”

Drift could not imagine Ratchet and “Chief Medical Officer” as separate entities. The very thought of dividing the two was utterly foreign. “Oh Ratchet,” he said, “you shouldn’t have…”

“Yes, I should have,” Ratchet answered firmly. “I should have done it a long time ago. I should have kept my word and given First Aid the job long before Hedonia. But no, I kept making up excuses, telling myself First Aid wasn’t good enough yet.” His tone was filled with loathing. “You want to hear a secret, Drift? Once I realized my new hands were working, First Aid was never going to be good enough. I was going to hold onto that job forever. And when Rodimus exiled you—when you left—I could’ve gone with you, but instead I _held onto that damned job. Still_.”

Drift could not think of anything to say in response to the self-condemnation in Ratchet’s voice.

“I don’t know _what_ I was thinking, to act as though being Chief Medical Officer was more important than being with you.” To Drift’s utter shock, Ratchet’s lower lip quivered. His optics slowly flared with light. “And I don’t blame you if you can never forgive me for that.”

Drift felt his whole world slowly turn over. _He_ was the one who made terrible mistakes. _He_ was the one who deserved to suffer. _He_ was the one who could never be forgiven. Not _Ratchet_.

 _Never_ Ratchet.

Drift’s whole frame shook with intense feelings of denial. The shock was so great that Drift found himself unable to open his mouth and articulate just how _mistaken_ Ratchet was. How he’d misplaced the blame for the situation they were in now. And in Drift’s silence, Ratchet kept speaking.

“So yes, something horrible happened on Luna One, and…you want to know why I don’t believe in Primus? Not because there’s no scientific evidence; that’s Perceptor’s argument. It’s because if there’s an all-knowing, all-powerful being, and all the filthy rotten slag I see around me happens anyway, then either Primus doesn’t give a smelted slug, or he’s a sociopathic monster who thinks that kind of injustice is acceptable.” 

Ratchet balled up his fists, clenching them tightly with fury. “Drift, I hope you forgive me if I don’t believe in karma, because if I did I’d have to accept that everything that happened to me was in response to the mistake I made when I chose that stupid job over you and let you leave me, and that I have no right to complain about getting exactly what I had coming to me.”

“No.” Drift grabbed Ratchet’s hands, scrabbling at his fingers until his fists opened and their fingers intertwined. “Don’t you _dare_ say you deserved to be someone else’s victim. It doesn’t matter why you were there. If someone chose to hurt you, that’s on them.”

Ratchet hesitated and finally nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Damned right I am. You keep saying those words to me—that my mistakes didn’t justify someone else’s cruelty—so either you’re lying, or I’m right.”

Ratchet snorted, but the left side of his mouth curved into a smile.

“Yeah. Okay. Regardless, I survived,” Ratchet continued. “First Aid was more messed up than me, though, and then I really couldn’t leave him.”

“Ambulon?”

Ratchet bowed his head. “Ambulon died on Luna One. Someone _else_ I couldn’t save.”

Drift felt his insides churn. “That’s why First Aid was such a mess.”

Ratchet nodded, but he didn’t seem willing—or able—to dwell on the thought. Instead, he continued, “Then Shockwave…well, the situation back on Cybertron turned universe-threateningly critical. Finally, when the _Lost Light_ was back on her way again, and First Aid started coming around, I looked at myself and I thought, _now you have no excuse_ , and still I stayed. It took…it took another crisis and someone else’s exoneration for me to say _no, Drift got a bad deal and I’m going to fix it. No matter the cost_.” Ratchet sighed. “I don’t expect your congratulations, just so we’re clear. I’m hoping you might consider accepting my apology that it took so unforgivably long for me to do the right thing. If you don’t, I understand.”

Drift had never even considered the possibility of such an option. He still felt as though the world were backwards and upside-down. “I don’t think you did anything wrong, Ratchet,” he stammered.

Ratchet glared at him. “That’s only because _you_ are constantly underestimating your own worth. _Anyone_ with _any_ sense of ethics would have known to _listen_ to their partner and, if you’d still insisted on going into exile rather than putting responsibility where it belonged—and I now know why you did—but if I’d have known _then_ why you were doing what you were doing, the _right_ thing for me to do would’ve been to turn over the Chief Medical Officer rank to First Aid on the spot and leave the _Lost Light_ with you. You’re…you were supposed to be my _partner_ , for Primus’s sake. I wanted you to be my _conjunx endura_. What did I do? Send you off for the sake of a job I shouldn’t have even had any longer.”

“What about me?” Drift argued. “Turn that argument around. What does it say about me? Leaving for Rodimus’s sake instead of staying for yours?”

Ratchet drew in a breath. “I might not agree with your solution, but I believe that you thought leaving the _Lost Light_ was the only way to salvage the quest and save lives.”

Drift felt a sensation like his spark rising up in his throat. “I…If I’d have thought you would’ve come with me…I would’ve asked you.”

Ratchet bowed his head. “I probably would have said no. Because I was _stupid_.”

“I have to tell you,” Drift blurted. “Something awful would’ve happened if…if Rodimus lost command. The quest would’ve gone nowhere. The DJD would’ve found us. I…I can’t tell you how I know that, I wouldn’t expect you to believe me, but I swear I know this is true, and I had to leave.”

“Did you say DJD?” Ratchet asked slowly. “Oh. By the Matrix. Those thoughts. Those visions. The memories you uploaded.”

Drift nodded. “I know you’re gonna say I had a nightmare, but it wasn’t just a dream, Ratchet, I swear. Without Rodimus you and I would’ve ended up hiding in a storage closet with Hound and…”

Drift watched, incredulous, as Ratchet’s hands rose up to his eyes.

Then reached out and touched the place on Drift’s chest where, in the vision, two hand marks had buckled his plating. Slowly, Ratchet’s right hand rose up to stroke Drift’s helm, where the Great Sword had pierced at the last.

Drift strained to swallow.

“You were right,” Ratchet said huskily.

“Oh Primus,” Drift whispered, shaking. “The DJD…did they…”

“No,” Ratchet murmured, “not our _Lost Light_. Nightbeat told me…Well. This isn’t a matter of faith, Drift, it’s a matter of quantum physics, and you were right, what you saw was real, but it’s over now. Rodimus is alive, Hound’s alive, the ship’s fine…”

“The DJD are gone?”

Ratchet bit his lower lip. “I’m sure they’re out there somewhere, but… Look, right now, everyone’s okay, and we want you to come home.”

Drift shook his head. “I have stuff to do out here.”

Ratchet sighed. “Okay. Then we’ll do stuff out here.”

“What about the _Lost Light_?” Drift protested numbly. “What about First Aid?”

Was Drift insane to think that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to keep Ratchet with him after all? Heal the rift between them and make it as though he and Ratchet had been a team all along, learning to live together without the _Lost Light_?

“First Aid’s gone back to Cybertron,” Ratchet said.

Drift hadn’t realized he was able to feel any more shocked. “You left them _with just Hoist_?” Hoist was an engineer first, a paramedic second…not a doctor!

“I left them with Velocity. New crew member; friend of Nautica’s. Just graduated from medical school a little while ago. Fresh blood.”

“You mean a _new doctor_. Someone who doesn’t have your millennia of experience and…dammit, Ratchet, you know what Rodimus is like! You can’t leave that ship without someone who knows his way around an operating room! This Velocity, he needs a mentor.”

“She.”

“Whatever! She should have you to guide her. To ask for advice. Like First Aid and…and Pharma did.” Drift hated mentioning Pharma, but it was better than the name he’d almost said: Ambulon’s.

“I’m not sure I was that much of a help in the long run.”

“Everyone whose lives you saved would disagree with you. Damn it, Ratchet. I’m about to go do something dangerous—to undo some of the damage I caused when I wore the purple badge—and you, you’re not a soldier. You would do the greater good back home on the _Lost Light_. Just like I’m making the most difference out here.”

Was he, though? Yes, Drift was saving lives…but he’d also done that on Temptoria. It had been easy to believe he was where he should be when he thought he couldn’t go home. If the danger was past…if his vision would never come to be…then…

Primus help him. He wanted to go home.

“We’re not going anywhere tonight,” Ratchet huffed. “Let’s stay with the original plan. You and I will go do whatever it is you need to do…wherever those ‘Cons in the hold said something was going down…and after that, _if_ we both survive after charging in like idiots…after that, we can think long-term.”

Right. Even if he was having second thoughts, Drift couldn’t turn away. Not knowing what he knew thanks to Grit. He had to, at the very least, check it out. And he didn’t know how to stop Ratchet from insisting he come along.

 _What did you do that was so bad?_ Drift had asked.

 _I didn’t go with you_. Spoken in that tone of deep self-hatred.

Drift had the feeling that Ratchet intended to be _going with him_ for a very long time to come.

_Unless I can drive him away. Tell him he’s not wanted. Show him he’s not needed._

Drift didn’t know if he’d be able to do that.

Looking at Ratchet, sitting on the floor of the shuttle, Drift knew for a fact that he definitely wouldn’t be able to do that tonight.

“Come on,” Drift coaxed, “you shouldn’t be sleeping on this hard floor. Let’s go back to the captain’s cabin and get some rest while the getting’s good.” 

Ratchet sat on the ground, an obstinate lump. “I don’t want to go,” he protested.

“Come on. Cold floor isn’t good for your joints.”

“I don’t want to. You…” Ratchet took a deep breath. “I won’t stay in that cabin without you.”

“I’ll come with you,” Drift murmured.

Ratchet eyed him skeptically. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

At that, Ratchet let Drift haul him to his feet. He draped his arm—and the diagnostic cables, still connected to Drift’s forearm—around Drift’s neck. Drift led them, ever so slowly, towards the captain’s cabin, mindful of Ratchet’s shuffling feet and Drift’s own trepidation.

Finally, _finally_ , they were in the captain’s cabin, and Drift made one more nominal attempt at extricating himself from Ratchet’s embrace. Ratchet would have none of it. He sat down heavily in the bunk, pulling Drift down with him, and the next thing Drift knew, Ratchet was sprawled across his bunk with Drift on top of him like a hood ornament—so much like so very many of Drift’s fondest memories.

But Ratchet’s hands didn’t start caressing their way up his spinal strut, teasing every sweet spot along the way. They rested on his shoulder blades, heavy and limp. Ratchet was clearly exhausted, and Drift wondered how he of all people could be a talisman against nightmares. Still, there was no denying the evidence. With Drift lying against him, Ratchet had slipped into a deep and heavy sleep he obviously needed.

Drift lay there in the dimness, listening to Ratchet’s breath whispering in and out of his intake vents, feeling the diagnostic cables in his arm pulsing much more gently now, and tried to make sense of the last cycle.

Drift didn’t know a lot about courting, but even he knew that _you weren’t supposed to frag your ex._ Or sleep snuggled up with him, which somehow felt like an even worse transgression for two mechs who were supposed to be no more than potential amica endurae, if even that much. And he didn’t know how much longer he could _keep_ Ratchet as his ex, what with the medic following him around this way. 

But if Ratchet followed him into some deadly situation—some mess with the Decepticons that required a killer, not a healer—Drift would never forgive _himself_.

He was in a mess, and he ought to be more upset about it, but from where he lay, it seemed to Drift that he had tomorrow and the rest of his life to deal with the fallout from tonight’s choices. There was nothing more to be done about it now. And there was nothing further he could do to make this situation worse.

So, having reached maximum damage, there was no reason he shouldn’t lay his head on Ratchet’s shoulder and take what comfort he could.

He had Ratchet back. Just for one night. And it would kill him tomorrow, but tonight…tonight he had nothing left to lose.

He thought he’d stay up and watch Ratchet sleeping for hours. He hadn’t counted on the comforting scent of medic and the relaxing purr of Ratchet’s engine and the warmth pouring off the ambulance’s frame conspiring to send Drift into the deepest sleep he’d had since leaving the _Lost Light._

Drift wasn’t ready at all to find himself, all of a sudden, waking up on the morning after.

*

Drift had slept deeply, but Ratchet had slept more deeply still. The former Chief Medical Officer remained soundly in recharge when Drift woke up and reluctantly slipped off of him. Carefully, he tugged Ratchet’s diagnostic jacks free of the ports in his arm. 

Ratchet moaned in his sleep and clutched at his chest where Drift’s warmth had been. Drift pulled a tarp over him, which stopped the grabbing motion, but Ratchet turned restlessly onto his side and Drift knew he would wake up soon.

Drift had to be gone before that happened or all his good intentions would fall to ruin.

He hesitated in the doorway, considering giving Ratchet one last kiss. Just a brush of his lips over Ratchet’s cheek. Ratchet would never know. Just one last private touch for Drift to savour.

But Ratchet reached out across the berth for his partner who was no longer there, and Drift knew he couldn’t take the risk.

Ratchet’s desire to follow him didn’t change what Drift was, or who Deadlock had been, or what Drift needed to do now to atone for his sins. Drift had debts to pay, and he could not ask Ratchet to pay them too. Ratchet, unlike Drift, had not done anything wrong.

It had to be over between him and Ratchet. He’d made sure of that. And once they’d checked out this planet…once he’d satisfied Ratchet that he could deal with the world’s Decepticon problem himself…Ratchet would be on his way back to the _Lost Light_ , where he belonged, and Drift would be out here, back on course for his inevitable rendezvous with the death he surely deserved.

Drift waited to feel pain, but it didn’t come. It was as though being in Ratchet’s presence shielded him from the agony he knew would follow. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel happy, either, for a situation he knew was temporary. Drift felt as though he were stuck in some kind of limbo, neither single nor courting, trapped in the middle between joy and despair. His entire life was a song on pause as he waited for some cosmic hand to press play and the final movement to continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and this is the point where you go get your copies of Empire of Stone, give them a read, and come back for Chapters 7 and 8, which take place after the miniseries.


	7. Echoes of Empire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking forward to TFCon Toronto! :)

Chapter 7: Echoes of Empire

(Post _Empire of Stone)_

The autopilot was set; every minute that passed took Drift, Ratchet and their shuttle that much closer to a reunion with the _Lost Light_. Still, the little vessel wasn’t that fast, comparatively speaking, and the nearest wormhole jumpgate was still a ways away. With the shuttle’s course locked in, Drift and Ratchet had nothing to do but wait and rest.

They needed it. Ratchet had repaired Drift’s injuries before patching up his own. Ratchet had used the shuttle’s wash station, then practically ordered Drift into it. Now they sat up here in the cockpit, not speaking, avoiding optic contact, and Drift wondered if it was just him who was working hard to avoid breaking the silence or if Ratchet was doing the same.

_Come back to the Lost Light. If not as an Autobot, then as a friend._

Drift had said yes. But with every lightyear that passed, Drift became more and more disgusted with the idea of spending the rest of his life as Ratchet’s _friend_.

He didn’t want to be _friends_. This arrangement…sitting side by side, with a few inches and a gaping abyss between them…it was _wrong_. So wrong it made Drift feel sick. His spark had been hollowed out of his frame and given to Ratchet, and without it he felt torn in two.

But if Ratchet felt nothing unusual…worse, if Ratchet felt _content_ with the current arrangement… Drift bit his tongue. He didn’t dare say or do anything until he knew how Ratchet was feeling, lest he lash out at his former court-mate. Yelling at Ratchet for their necessary breakup would be bad enough. But Deadlock was never that far under his skin—he knew that now—and he could feel his own restless anger circulating with every beat of his fuel pump, waiting for a physical release. He’d never forgive himself if he attacked Ratchet. He’d drawn his swords on him once—never again. Better he sit here, keep himself under control, and let the situation evolve on its own.

Ratchet braced his hand on the control panel and lurched to his feet.

Drift couldn’t help leaning forward into Ratchet’s field of vision and raising an optic ridge questioningly.

Ratchet smiled wanly. “All this excitement is a bit much for an old mech like me,” Ratchet said. “Autopilot’s working fine, so I think I’ll go recharge for a while.”

“You, ah, you want the captain’s cabin?”

“I shouldn’t take your berth.” Ratchet broke optic contact, looking at the floor instead.

“I don’t want you sleeping in the cargo hold.” Drift rose, putting his hands on his hips. He felt stubborn, balky. “It’s not good for your joints. Which had a hard workout thanks to me and my stupid plan.”

Ratchet sighed. For a moment, he just stared at the ground. Then he steeled his expression and met Drift’s gaze. “Forgive me. What I mean to say is, I’m not going to sleep well at all unless you’re nearby.”

Drift’s jaw dropped.

Ratchet continued, “That’s not intended, by the way, as an attempt to guilt or shame you into recharging next to me. So I’m going to armour up and shoot straight with you: I don’t want to rest alone, but whether I do or not is entirely up to you, with no repercussions and no expectations.”

In the past, Drift would have gone to the cargo bay with Ratchet in an attempt to make Ratchet happy, no matter his own feelings. Drift still heard a voice in his head whispering that after dragging Ratchet on his ill-fated scouting mission to the planet of the stone army, Drift _owed_ him something in return. But now, Drift blotted out that voice and asked himself: _what do I want?_

His spark answered him: _Ratchet_.

And though his rational mind warned him against sleeping with his ex, figuratively or literally, that same mind also told him that Ratchet would not have admitted such a weakness if it weren’t true. It was clear from the ambulance’s expression that the admission had cost him: he looked ashamed and anxious. Drift didn’t like it. He particularly didn’t like the idea of Ratchet not resting properly.

“Come on,” Drift said, “let’s go to the captain’s cabin.”

“Drift,” Ratchet said, hanging back. “Are you _sure_?”

Drift wished Ratchet wouldn’t ask questions like that, because he wasn’t sure, he wasn’t sure _at all_ and the last thing he wanted was to third- or fourth- or fifth-guess himself, particularly when the current course of action would put him next to Ratchet for just one more night.

As a _friend_.

“Yeah,” Drift said, trying hard not to choke. “Yeah, I’m sure.” He forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look as sickly as he felt. “Friends can do that, right?”

Ratchet lowered his head. “Yeah. Sure, kid.”

Drift reached out for Ratchet’s hand, caught himself just in time, and headed for the cockpit door instead. He could hear Ratchet’s heavy footfalls behind him. Drift activated the door to the captain’s cabin, which slid open to admit them both, then slid shut behind them.

The berth lay before them, silent and accusatory, its covers still mussed from their brief residency on the outbound voyage. Drift scooted into it and made his way to the side that lay against the wall, giving Ratchet space to enter the other side at his own pace. Drift tried so hard not to do anything that might come across as provocative, crab-walking backwards rather than crawling on all fours, sitting sedately with his hands folded in front of him, staring at the tarps rather than at Ratchet as his ex got into the bunk with him.

This was hell. Drift considered going down to the cargo bay once Ratchet was asleep, but that would be even worse. He couldn’t leave Ratchet alone in the dark. He didn’t want to waste his last opportunity to lie next to him. They’d be back on the _Lost Light_ soon enough, and sleeping…where? Ratchet wasn’t the CMO any longer. He wouldn’t have the room next to the medbay any more. Drift was under no illusions that he’d get to be an officer again. He was lucky to be allowed back at all.

Sharing a hab suite with Ratchet or sharing a hab suite with a stranger—which would be worse? Drift didn’t think he’d recharge well with some person he didn’t trust walking around in his personal sanctuary. It would probably be only a matter of time before the swords he always slept with ended up stabbed into his roommate’s hand—or throat. But to share with _Ratchet_? To hear his soft vents—to _smell_ him so close—and to not be able to touch?

_Hell_.

Drift shuddered. _Nothing I can do about it now_. Ultra Magnus would condemn him to a hab suite assignment soon enough after they returned to the _Lost Light_. In the meantime, Drift had to lay down on the opposite side of the bunk and make sure that he didn’t cuddle up to Ratchet, or even let his hands brush up against him. 

Drift wove his fingers together to make certain. This wouldn’t be easy. The captain’s berth was luxurious for one, but awfully close quarters for two. He could feel the warmth radiating off Ratchet’s frame.

Drift tried to meditate, to find his stillpoint, but his senses kept sending alerts every time Ratchet shifted, or drew air into his vents. Somehow Drift finally fell into a sort of stupor that was, if not blissful loss of self-awareness, at least a limbo of dull aching need that, though unpleasant, was sustainable. 

Until Ratchet brushed against Drift’s back.

Drift didn’t know if it had been intentional or an accident. Ratchet’s hand, or the side of his arm, or his chest. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that an unappeasable hunger roared up in his spark, and Drift could bear no more of it. He flipped onto his side, facing Ratchet, reaching out to him. His hands came to rest on Ratchet’s chest.

Ratchet froze.

Drift grabbed Ratchet’s upper arm, hard enough to hurt, struggling to contain himself and partly succeeding. He felt disarmed and vulnerable when he couldn’t stab something until the problem solved itself. There was nothing here to kill; there was nothing to hit to make his pain go away. It was still the only way he knew to respond. 

The wince on Ratchet’s face horrified him. The pleasure of attack suffusing his spark with comfort and warmth became tainted by the knowledge that he, Drift, was hurting the person he loved most. 

_I can’t help it._

_You_ can _help it. You just don’t_ want _to. Get that pain outside you; give it to someone else. That’s the only way you can feel good now._

Which was true? 

Which was _worse_?

With effort, Drift loosened his grip and watched Ratchet relax. Ratchet rubbed at his arm. Drift could see the dents he’d left behind.

_You hurt your par…your best friend. What kind of monster are you?_

But Ratchet didn’t seem interested in meting out well-deserved blame. “Are you all right?” Ratchet asked.

The fact that Ratchet’s concern in this situation was for Drift and not himself was so ludicrous that Drift couldn’t swallow a hysterical laugh. “No,” he blurted, horrified at how his voice choked off in a sob. “No, I’m _not_ all right. I…I _hate_ this, Ratchet. It’s killing me.”

The corners of Ratchet’s mouth moved. Drift’s optics shimmered, but he squinted to see through them anyway. Ratchet caught himself before he frowned and returned his mouth to a neutral expression. But he couldn’t stop the feeling from reflecting in his optics.

“You’re allowed to change your mind,” Ratchet said softly. “We can always change course.”

Ratchet thought he didn’t want to go back to the _Lost Light_ any longer. And in truth, Drift had considered it during their long silence in the control room. He still wasn’t sure how he would get by seeing Ratchet in the corridors and in Swerve’s every day, so close and so far away, unable to touch him any more, unable to hold him any more.

But he would not leave Ratchet unprotected again unless Ratchet sent him away.

“No,” Drift choked. “I want to go home.”

“Okay,” Ratchet replied, but Drift could see the confusion on his face. He still didn’t understand what was wrong.

“I mean I want to go _home_ ,” Drift said, touching the panel on Ratchet’s lower arm so there could be no mistake. Closer to Ratchet’s wrist, Drift had carved the symbols for _the doctor Ratchet / under the protection_ / _of Drift_. His hand rested above the fourth sigil: _together we are home_.

Ratchet’s optics shimmered, but he didn’t say anything. Drift felt panic rising in his chest as the moment stretched on in silence. “Can’t you…” Drift’s voxcoder failed him. He spat out static, swallowed, tried again. “Would you ever ask to court me again?” Drift bit his lip. 

Ratchet’s upper arm wrapped around Drift’s waist. Drift thrilled at the contact; it felt so good, so _right_. But Ratchet wasn’t smiling, and Drift felt a sensation like something squeezing at his spark.

“No,” Ratchet said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how evil am I....not evil enough to make everyone wait another month before I post the last chapter. I'll get it up next week when I get home from Toronto :)


	8. Tide of Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy this is for everyone I saw at TFCon, thanks for making this year's TFCon Toronto another Greatest Hit for my memories :) you know who you are
> 
> and for everyone who wanted to come and couldn't, this one's for you, too. :)

Chapter Eight: Tide of Change

Drift felt the ground fall away under him, with Ratchet’s arm his only anchor over a gaping abyss. What did Ratchet mean? Now that Drift had dumped him, did this mean they could only ever be friends with benefits from now on? 

Drift would take it. Oh, he knew he shouldn’t, but he also knew he would anyway, even if it was an illusion, even if he was fooling himself. Drift had never been strong that way. 

But he had to know.

“Why not?” Drift asked through dry lips.

Ratchet seemed to be in pain too. His hand trembled in the small of Drift’s back. “Seems to me you had a reason for breaking up with me.”

Primus. Drift could barely remember what that reason was. Because he was too dangerous to be around? Because he had amends to make? He seemed to recall that it was about protecting Ratchet, though he couldn’t recall if the bigger threat was Drift himself, or the situations he put himself in. Was he selfish—was he _damned_ —because he wanted Ratchet at his side anyway?

 _But Ratchet got hurt because you weren’t there with him_.

And if that was the case, then wasn’t it up to Ratchet to decide what risks he wanted to take? Drift had no right to make those kind of choices on Ratchet’s behalf. If Ratchet would rather risk staying at Drift’s side than keep his distance, shouldn’t Drift respect that?

Ratchet said he would follow him anywhere, and it was the truth. Drift could tell Ratchet that he _didn’t_ want Ratchet to follow him, and it would be a lie.

“Not a good reason,” Drift managed to say. “It’s not fair of me to try to say what is and isn’t too dangerous for you. It isn’t right for me to try to tell you what kind of choices to make. I presumed the exile meant I shouldn’t be with you any more, and I wouldn’t let you explain why it might be otherwise, and I took it upon myself to tell you what risks you could and couldn’t take instead of respecting that you could be responsible for your own choices. I just…I just hate to think of you hurting because of me, and I feel like that’s going to happen no matter what.”

“If it’s going to happen regardless,” Ratchet said carefully, “then why not make a decision that will be the best for us in the meantime?”

“Because it’s too late!” Drift blurted. He shoved Ratchet away, sitting upright in the bunk, lashing out with words instead of blades. “I had love and I lost it and now you won’t ask to court me again!”

Ratchet sat up too, undeterred by Drift’s onslaught. “You haven’t lost anything.”

“But you loved me,” Drift growled, “and I left you.”

“I still love you,” Ratchet said gently, “as much as ever.”

Drift gaped at Ratchet, and a wild sob escaped his throat. “We’re split up and I can’t fix it!”

“No, Drift. We’re split up because you told me we were, and I won’t argue with your choice. You must’ve had your reasons.” Ratchet reached out and took Drift’s hands. “If those reasons have changed, that’s up to _you_ to say, not me.”

Drift looked down at their hands, fingers folded around one another, and realized that respect worked both ways. He’d finally come to understand that if Ratchet chose to be with him, it wasn’t fair for him to try to drive the doctor away “for his own good” when he really wanted Ratchet there with him. Yet somehow Drift had not quite grasped that if he said he didn’t want to be courting any longer, Ratchet wouldn’t argue with him or try to convince him to change his mind. 

_Respect_. Drift had learned to give it. Now he had to learn to _receive_ it. 

He looked up at Ratchet questioningly.

“What do you want, Drift?” Ratchet asked. “You know what I want, but I need to know what you want. What do you want us to be to each other?”

Hope was a lie. Drift couldn’t let himself believe in the warmth bubbling up in his spark. “So if I ask you to let me court you, you’ll say yes?”

Ratchet nodded. “I love you, Drift.”

_It’s this easy?_

Drift opened his mouth, but he couldn’t say the words. A blinding revelation hit him before he could ask.

He couldn’t say he wanted to court Ratchet.

That was a lie.

Drift blurted out the truth instead.

“Will you be my _conjunx endura_?”

Words hung in the air, irretrievable as bullets fired. Drift waited for them to strike their target. No, he didn’t want to take them back, but he knew that these words, now said, could not be unsaid, and that they would carry consequences.

Ratchet looked taken aback for only a second as Drift’s meaning hit home. Then his mouth curved in a warm and genuine grin. “I’d be honoured to.” His fingers stroked Drift’s tenderly.

Drift vented hard, waiting for something to go wrong. He had a terrible feeling that he’d forgotten something, and it would come back to bite him. But Ratchet had said yes. And Drift really wanted this.

_We’re back together._

_And we’re going to stay that way._

“As soon as we get back,” Drift said, “we’ll do the _conjunx ritus_ properly. We’ll get Rodimus to…”

Drift broke off. _There…_ that was what was wrong.

It must have showed on his face. “Drift?” Ratchet asked.

Drift hung his head. “I didn’t do that right,” he muttered, ashamed. “I know you’re supposed to plan asking something like that. I’m supposed to get you a gift. I’m supposed to take you somewhere nice. I’m supposed to _confess_ something, though what in the Pit I could tell you about myself that you don’t already know, I have no idea.” 

_For Primus’s sake. You’re not supposed to ask someone to be your conjunx in a tiny berth on a junky shuttle in the middle of nowhere._

Someone like _him_ really shouldn’t be asking that question at all.

“Sorry,” Drift mumbled again. “I didn’t think. Can you…can you give me some time so I can do it again, properly this time?”

“You meant it, though.” Ratchet squeezed Drift’s hands. 

“You’re slagging right I meant it. I don’t want to just be courting and I definitely don’t want to be the kind of friends who frag sometimes. I want you to be my _conjunx_ and I want everyone to know it. I want to stand up in front of the whole _Lost Light_ and settle this once and for all: I want to spend my life with you.” Drift felt his faceplates heating.

Ratchet pulled Drift close and wrapped his arms around him. “Yes, Drift. Yes, I want that too.”

Drift hugged Ratchet tightly. He felt so right. He smelled so good. “How do…how do I fix the worst marriage request ever?”

“You don’t.” Ratchet kissed Drift’s cheek. “I don’t need a fancy dinner or a pretty view or an expensive present. And I definitely don’t need to watch you shame yourself to make an “appropriate” confession. I need the truth in your spark, and now I have it. That’s what matters.” He released his hold just enough so they could look one another in the optics. “Do you want something more memorable? Is that what this is about?”

Drift shook his head. “Just wanted….just wanted to be good enough.” _Story of my life_ , Drift thought, but the notion lacked its usual bite. Drift realized that to Ratchet, he _was_ good enough already. Maybe before too long, he would be good enough to satisfy himself.

It was something to work towards. And, he realized, looking at Ratchet, he wouldn’t be working towards it alone.

“You don’t need to say it,” Drift said gently. “I know you think I am. And I think I’m starting to believe you.”

Ratchet smiled. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

Drift kissed Ratchet, and as Ratchet returned the kiss, Drift was struck by a revelation. He’d never actually considered what Ratchet might do for the final Act of the _conjunx ritus_. Drift had always assumed it would be Ratchet who would initiate the rite. After all, Drift was well accustomed to needing to prove his devotion.

But Ratchet had turned that natural order on its head. And Drift could not imagine any greater act of devotion than Ratchet giving up the CMO position—the job that had defined his life—to come after Drift, with no guarantee of even finding him, let alone receiving a warm welcome.

It made Drift wonder if Ratchet was, in fact, his _conjunx endura_ already.

No matter. As soon as they got back to the _Lost Light_ , Drift would make sure the arrangement was formally recognized. After that there would be no room for questions.

Drift wanted to get back as soon as possible. But as Ratchet initiated another kiss, Drift knew that he was already home.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there will be more to come :)


End file.
